


Letters Home

by BoxWineConfessions



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, epistle fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 08:32:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14891147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxWineConfessions/pseuds/BoxWineConfessions
Summary: Dear Yuri,First and foremost, congratulations. You need not hear them from anyone because your actions speak for themselves. I know that pride is an emotion that is associated with personal achievement or involvement. I had no personal involvement in what happened to you in Pyeongchang, and yet I cannot help but feel something that must be like pride. Your win is so deserved, I feel nothing but joy in my heart for you.After Pyeongchang, Otabek takes time to learn more about himself and reflect on those he loves most. Written for the Dark Horse/Otabek Zine.





	Letters Home

Jean-Jacques,

This is not the kind of activity that I would partake in normally. In fact, it is highly likely that you will never see this letter. It isn’t that I don’t have anything that I want to say to you. In fact, there are many things on my mind, which you would appreciate. Simply put, I have no idea where to begin. The things that I want to say to you are not easily brought up in casual conversation. They go all the way back to Toronto, and they extend far beyond our recent meeting in Pyeongchang.

My mind is transfixed upon my time with you there, but not on the time that we spent on the rink together. My mind goes back to all the times that you were out on the ice doing compulsories, and I stood at the rail with your father. He asked me if I had been born in Almaty.

He told me that he wished he traveled more. He told me that he wished he knew something, any kind of life beyond the rink. He warned me not to make the same mistakes that he did.  I wondered why you told me this, and not you, his oldest son. I wondered why he was the coach to both of us, but he pushed you so much harder. Do you think it ever did any good? 

On a less solemn note, your collection of Sports Illustrated magazines have found their way safely to Almaty. I am told that they all contain your individual cover. Mother comments that you’re looking well, although she strongly disapproves of your tattoos. I appreciate the thought, although others are not so receptive. Yuri would deeply appreciate it if you did not send any more materials to him.

I apologize for not returning your messages. I’ve been traveling across the continent for some time. I’m in Kiev with little more than a few changes of clothes. I write to you upon pages of my hostelmate’s journal, torn out and given to me after a night of drinking stale beer and playing cards.   

If you could see me now, you’d laugh. My face is covered in stubble. I'm feeling nostalgic today. I'll tell you a good memory now. Remember when we shaved before the autumn formal? We used an entire can of Barbarossa. If I recall correctly, you nicked more hair than you shaved. Alain was furious, and we both looked foolish. Isabella wouldn’t even speak to you.

You’re probably wondering why I’m writing this to you. Perhaps I yearn for simpler times. It seems as if all I had to worry about when I was in Toronto was what was for dinner, and if we could get the keys to your father’s car. Perhaps you’ll understand how I am feeling. I am haunted by the Salchow performed in Pyeongchang. Although, there were times when it came to me simply.

Please forgive me for my lack of response via text. My phone went dead somewhere between Astana and Orenburg. Your last message mentioned something about going to Miami together. I hope that you yourself are not feeling unrest at this time. Your performance was masterful, and the spotlight has always suited you. Your wanderlust, much like mine, has always indicated agitation.

Fondly,  

Otabek

* * *

 

Farida, 

By public transport, it is exactly ninety-four minutes from my apartment in Almaty to mother’s house. There are two trains, and there is a transfer at central station. After that, there is one bus. The route is simple, take the fifty-four all the way up the hill. By bike, it’s thirty minutes, and by bike in traffic maybe forty. I haven’t driven a car in a long time, but it may take a little longer. I have been back home in Almaty for over two years now. Of course, there is always travel for competition. Travel to the states is unavoidable. Do you remember my choreographer Marie? She’s relocated to New York, which is why I go there so often.

The fact of the matter is you are my only sibling. We live in the same city, and yet we are blatant and unapologetic strangers to one another. Of course, if we were to speak of this out loud, it would be the kind of thing tense and uncomfortable that I would desperately try to avoid admitting.

It was clear to me when I saw you in Pyeongchang that things are different than I remember. You wore my old Ramones shirt, and it was shown on national television. What is your favorite song? Your favorite album? Have you worked your way through the collection of records that I left in my room when I moved out? Should I try to send you something? If I do, how can I know it is suited to your tastes and not my own?

Mother says you’ve taken up fencing. I won’t tell you that overworking yourself is without reward. I will say, take note of everything. I spent many nights in St. Petersburg, Colorado Springs, Toronto, and Pyeongchang falling asleep before my head even hit the pillow. I spent a lot of time not realizing all the strange and amazing things going on around me. Now that I’m back from the games, I stand with the result. However, I am a changed man with no record or true understanding of how I got here. I hope to fix this by writing to people like you, and Jean-Jacques, and Yuri Plisetsky.  

If I were to tell you this in person, you’d roll your eyes and insist that I’m not that much older than you. That is undeniably true. Five years feels like a long time, but I’m beginning to understand that it is nothing. How could I have been home already two years? How could I have left Toronto four years ago?

At any rate, I’d like to join you at fencing practice every so often. Would that be okay?

Fondly,

Beka.

* * *

 

Leo, 

One of the last text messages from you that I received suggested that the three of us travel to Miami. Slipping into the shade away from the harsh heat of day, roaming across the beach, or roasting in the booth in a club…..All of those things sound wonderful right now. 

I stand somewhere close enough to the summit of a mountain that there is thin and cold, and I can see my breath. Of course, I haven’t packed well. There’s a hole in my front tire the size of my thumb. It’s too big to mend with the can of aerosol inflator I keep with me. Although the Tatra Mountains are quite popular, I am not close enough to gather the attention of tourists heading up the trail.

This particular misadventure reminds me of when you first got your license and we took the car to Denver to see a show. If I recall correctly, you rear-ended a BMW in an attempt to parallel park downtown. Then, we couldn’t get into the show because the venue carded at the door.

I’m more than willing to play a reunion show under two conditions. First, we must rename the group. I can’t risk anything called  _ Zamboni Mercenaries _ being linked to my name anymore. Second, we must coordinate. I refuse to have a repeat of our attempted group show at The Shelter in Detroit. Although our styles are increasingly scattered, I think we could pull something off. I think a sample, that riff from “Not Enough” looped over that beat you sent me last month…Something upbeat JJ could sing over.

We should also consider time on the rink if we all do converge in Miami. Jean once said that he never truly perfected the Sal until he taught it. Perhaps we could give both our repertoires a much needed boost. One more thing. I believe that you once told me that quads were the future, and by being unable to perform them, you were stuck in the past. This is untrue. Quads are the present, this moment’s transfixion. Your inability to perform them must stem from the fact that you are always centered on the future.

Please forgive me for not sending this to you. It is written on the same page as a letter to my sister.

Regards,

Otabek

* * *

 

 ~~Dear~~ Yuri,  

First and foremost, congratulations. You need not hear them from anyone because your actions speak for themselves. I know that pride is an emotion that is associated with personal achievement or involvement. I had no personal involvement in what happened to you in Pyeongchang, and yet I cannot help but feel something that must be like pride. Your win is so deserved, I feel nothing but joy in my heart for you.

I’m in the kind of place you would absolutely love. How could I best describe it? My skin is crawling, and my eye is on the door constantly. I dare not look at anyone the wrong way or pull larger bills from my wallet. The table is made from a grooved and splintered hardwood. The pockmarks in the wood have been filled in by decades of secondhand smoke, spilled broth, and beer. There’s a large gray tabby that sits on the bar. She examines me carefully with one eye as she bats her tail back and forth. A large black fly crawls down her gray tabby stripes, and it’s by far the most unsettling thing I’ve seen on the road thus far.

Of course I still plan on visiting Hasetsu. I intend to go to Miami as well. I’d invite you, although I’m not sure if you’d approve of my company. I hope you plan on cooking when I visit.  I’d gladly give the world for your pirozhky right now, or perhaps some borscht. Right now I’m having a generous plate of mujaddara and tea. The rice is undercooked and the meat is over salted, yet it is the best thing I’ve eaten in recent memory. There aren’t many things that I miss about Pyeongchang, but your cooking is one of them.

The games feel like a surreal dream brought on by an onslaught of every sliver of hope I’ve chased to the podium. The aftermath feels like a gaping pool of fear that I’ve ever held at the bottom of my heart. Were we even in Pyeongchang at all? I can remember stepping off of the plane and going through customs. I can remember helping you move the furniture around in your dorm room. These are very clear and tactile moments for me. In the cinderblock dorm rooms of Olympic Village nothing stung, and nothing felt out of place. It was a peace unlike anything I’d ever known before, or may ever know again.

I must admit to you, because I feel as if I have the freedom to do so…I feel quite awful. My mistakes are laid out before me. The answers come at a slow trickle. I find just enough to keep going, keep pushing forward. However, they are so infrequent that it threatens to drive me mad. Is this what growth is?

I’m curious to know what you think. Everyone else I’ve written to has included an apology because I will never send this. Who wants to receive a letter written on torn and stained napkin, and stray bits of paper? However, I will see you in Hasetsu, and we’ll talk of all these things then. Remind me to tell you which country I’m flying in from. I feel myself being pulled southward.

Otabek

 

* * *

 

 ~~Dad Father~~ Alibek, 

In your travels, did you ever go to Pyeongchang? I just spent a few months there with some of my closest friends. My oldest friend, Jean-Jacques got married while he was there. It was a relatively small ceremony, even when you consider that he has ten siblings. My friend Leo was also there for a short time. You’d like Leo. He speaks slowly and softly. My closest friend Yuri Plisetsky was there too. He took gold in men’s figure skating.

I’ve seen your name written in the footnotes of history books. “Alibek Altin, 1950-2002, diplomat  & politician,” in shaky serif font in the big mildewed tomes that mother keeps on the bookshelf in the main room. I see these footnotes next to your work. I see these footnotes next to photos of you next to kings, presidents, and prime ministers. Seems as if you did a lot, only to be regulated to a foot note.

At first I wondered if I too would be regulated to a foot note. Figure skating is everything to me, but it isn’t everything to the world.

Did you chose Istanbul for a reason? Why not your home? Why not Almaty? Was it quieter here? Was there less pressure?

I can remember the first interview that I did for Astana TV. I’d just arrived in Korea, and they coated my face with a thick makeup that did not match my skin tone. I looked like an ugly porcelain doll cast in front of millions, but for several months this became normal to me. I never stopped longing for quiet. I never stopped yearning for just a pound of my burden to be relieved.

In your travels, did you ever go to Beijing? I’ll be going there in four years. It feels like a very long time, but I know that the months will crumble in my hands into days. Those days will slide through my fingers like fine grains of sand. Beijing will come soon, and I know that I will be ready.

Nice speaking to you,

Otabek

 

* * *

 

Yura, 

I’ll be flying into Fukuoka International from Istanbul with a layover in Seoul on the 23 rd . My flight is due in at noon, local time. If I sent you some money, could you please rent us a bike? I’ve looked into it myself, but Google translate isn’t particularly helpful.

Looking forward to Japan,

Otabek


End file.
